The Distant Joke
The night the old oak split, I did not scream, but I felt the vibration of its death in the marrow of my shinbones, a deep, resonant thrumming that traveled up through the soles of my boots and settled heavily in my chest like a stone dropped into a well of black water. It was a sound that no human throat was built to make, a groan of timber and resin that sounded horribly, unmistakably like a...
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